


be willing to let go of the life we have planned

by lavenderseaslug



Category: Holby City
Genre: F/F, tropes tropes tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-21
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2019-04-25 16:04:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14382132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderseaslug/pseuds/lavenderseaslug
Summary: Serena doesn't know why she offered to pick Bernie up, why she thought they should share a cab to the airport. Instead of getting there with plenty of time to spare, finding the correct gate and cup of coffee, Serena is instead sitting in an idling taxi, wondering just how much of the cab fare the hospital will be willing to cover.- - -Bernie and Serena go to a conference and tropes ensue!





	be willing to let go of the life we have planned

**Author's Note:**

> We must be willing to let go of the life we have planned, so we can have the life that is waiting for us. - E. M. Forster
> 
> Written on a whim, meant to act as entertainment on a bus ride.

Serena doesn't know why she offered to pick Bernie up, why she thought they should share a cab to the airport. Instead of getting there with plenty of time to spare, finding the correct gate and cup of coffee, Serena is instead sitting in an idling taxi, wondering just how much of the cab fare the hospital will be willing to cover.

She taps her phone screen again, the latest message from Bernie still reading "be right out" - that was sent five minutes ago, and Serena thinks they might have slightly different definitions of the phrase.

She runs a hand through her hair and sighs, not really irritated or put out, just mentally adding it to the list of "cons" that she's somehow started making about Bernie Wolfe.

The "pros" column far outweighs it, and Serena doesn't really know what she's totting all these characteristics up for, only recently became aware of the fact that she was doing it at all.

She buys coffees in the afternoon, always throws in a pastry. She's inventive, creative. She's good with Jason (not perfect, mind you, but better than most). She's willing to stand toe to toe with Guy Self. She's excellent in the operating theater. She looks nice in those light blue scrubs.

Serena pauses at that, blinks, shakes her head. It doesn't matter what Bernie looks like, not to her, not one bit.

_Her hair is messy_ , she thinks, as a way to counterbalance the thought of Bernie in scrubs, thinks that's something for the "cons" column, but just then, that singular head of hair emerges from the front door of the small rowhouse and Serena feels a bit of a flutter in her stomach and pretends she's never given Bernie's hair more than a passing glance.

The door to the cab opens, bringing with it a bit of a chill and Serena can't help but shiver for a moment as Bernie slides in next to her, feels grateful for the warmth of Bernie's arm against her own.

"All right?" Bernie asks with a smile, and Serena bites her tongue, stops herself from making a comment about punctuality that she knows would wipe the happy look from Bernie's lips.

"Yes. You?" Serena smooths the invisible wrinkles from her trousers, looks down at her well-manicured nails moving over the fabric, turns her lips up in a small smile as she hears Bernie answer in the affirmative.

Serena thinks Bernie probably knows that her tardiness isn't high on Serena's list of favorite things, offers an olive branch via explanation: "My only good dress, the one I need for tonight, was still damp. I was drying it with my hair dryer, just trying to avoid wrinkles." It's all a bit ridiculous and Serena can't stop the chuckle that escapes her.

"So you do own a hair dryer then?" she asks wryly, sees Bernie's rueful smile in response.

"Gets more use as a clothes dryer if I'm honest," she says, a hand touching her tousled locks with a modicum of self-consciousness and Serena almost has to sit on her hand to stop herself from batting Bernie's hand away, to stop from gently touching the blonde strands herself.

Instead she clears her throat, tells the driver they're good to go, and looks out the window, makes herself list the conference presentations she'll be attending, anything to knock the thoughts of Bernie Wolfe's infernal hair from her thoughts.

Bernie seems content to let them sit in silence as the streets of Holby whiz past; she's looking down at her phone, flipping through messages and Serena wonders if she's heard from her children, if they know she's going out of the country for a bit.

It's a quick flight, just to Spain, and come to think of it, Serena's not even sure she's told Elinor she's leaving. She slides her thumb across her phone, entering in her passcode, and swipes open her conversation to Elinor. The last thing they talked about was Elinor's failed audition and her feeling 'called to a new path.'

Serena feels like a new path means new bills for her to pay, if she's honest. But she types out a quick note, signs it with two xs just the same, stops herself from putting on that motherly tone, from admonishing Elinor to behave.

"Everything all right?" Bernie asks, and Serena clicks her phone off, looks at Bernie, sees the moue of concern on her face.

"Peachy," she answers, "Just letting Elinor know I'll be a bit hard to reach for the next few days. Not that..." She stops herself, doesn't need to go into detail about how rarely she and Elinor ever really talk.

"Mmm," Bernie says, like she knows there's more Serena was going to say, like perhaps she even knows what it was. "Cameron and Charlotte have assured me that they'll be able to get on just fine in my absence. Charlotte even managed to remind me they've been getting along without me for years."

"Not that you needed reminding," Serena says, softening her tone. "You flagellate yourself about that daily."

She doesn't notice that she's patting Bernie's hand until she's already done it, until she feels the warmth of her skin underneath her palm. "You've done amazing things, and they'll get over it one day."

Bernie's soft smile is thanks enough and Serena can't quite bring herself to move her hand away. She's always been tactile, she tells herself, always there with a gentle gesture and a squeeze to the shoulder. This is no different.

Bernie doesn't move her hand either, doesn't look down at the way their hands touch, just the smallest twitch of her forefinger as any sort of acknowledgement at all. Serena looks out the window once more, and if her thumb gently strokes across the back of Bernie’s hand, she can blame it on the movement of the car.

Serena checked in for her flight online, but still waits as Bernie stands in the line of passengers at the desk to get her boarding pass. She at least has ensured that they’re sitting next to each other, but beyond that has had very little control over Bernie’s travel habits. She checks her phone while she idles, no messages from Elinor, two emails from Holby, one from Ric lecturing her for checking her work mail at all.

When Bernie rejoins her, they make their way to the security checkpoint. Serena pulls out her small, clear bag, filled with little bottles of shampoo and conditioner, with soap and make-up. Bernie gives it a funny look, like she’s judging Serena a bit. “I like to travel with my things,” she says, a little primly, feels a little wrong-footed, wants Bernie to approve of her. She suddenly think perhaps Bernie has been making pro and con lists as well, wonders where “over-prepared for international journeys” falls.

She has a moment of glee, however, when Bernie’s bag gets flagged, when a befuddled TSA agent pulls out a full bottle of two-in-one shampoo and conditioner. “Ah,” Bernie says when she sees it. “Forgot that was in there. Been using this as a gym bag.” Serena does her best to contain the eyeroll, isn’t exactly sure she succeeds.

As far as hiccups go, there are relatively few. The gate is close, there’s a Starbucks right next to one of those candy and magazine stands. Bernie buys a bag of licorice, bright red, and a bottle of water. Serena just gets a cup of coffee and tells herself not to get the pastry, doesn’t want the crumbs all over her blouse as she travels.

“Been to Madrid before?” Bernie asks, sipping from her water.

“Just on holiday. With Edward and Elinor.” She doesn’t want to think about the horrible sunburn, about Elinor crying, about the way Edward leered at the young women that served them lunch. “Hoping this is a better experience,” she says, tries to keep her tone bright, happy. She and Bernie talk about a lot of things, talk about most things, but this isn’t precisely the sort of thing she wants to get into at an airport when the sun isn’t fully in the sky yet.

“Some good panels,” Bernie says, as she pulls out the conference packet they’ve been sent, as if they hadn’t gone over it together the previous day, planned out their whole itinerary. There’s a whole section of the conference devoted to emergency protocols combined with general surgery, the reason they’re attending this conference in the first place.

Serena hums her agreement, sips from her coffee again. Bernie offers a strand of red licorice, flopping loosely in her hand and Serena takes it, bites down, pulls it between her teeth, a satisfying nostalgic memory as the cherry flavor fills her mouth.

Boarding the plane is the usual nightmare, hoards of people whose rows haven’t been called queueing up and blocking the way. Bernie happily barrels through them all with barely a “pardon” and Serena just follows in her wake, catching a glimpse of the army major through it all.

Bernie takes the aisle seat, long legs spreading, and Serena is content with the window, warns Bernie that she sometimes needs to get up to use the loo and Bernie looks moderately reproachful. “It’s a two hour flight.”

“Yes, and I’ve had a coffee,” Serena answers pointedly, not one to back down.

“You’ll just have to climb over me, then, Ms. Campbell,” Bernie says with a grin and Serena has to tamp down on the blush she knows is spreading across her cheeks, wonders if Bernie even knows that she comes across as flirtatious, wonders if Bernie is even aware of the effect she has on Serena.

Not that there’s any effect, she tells herself sternly. They are work colleagues, friends, nothing more. Bernie wouldn’t want anything more anyway, she thinks. The thought is a bit startling, though Serena’s had it often enough of late, the idea of _more_ with Bernie Wolfe. And then she pushes it out of her mind because it isn’t appropriate, because this isn’t the time for it, because Bernie probably wouldn’t be interested anyway.

It’s fifteen minutes after take-off that Bernie falls asleep, her head lolling onto Serena’s shoulder, her blonde hair tickling against Serena’s nose. Her soft exhalations hit Serena’s bare forearm, warm breaths that make the fine hairs stand on end, make goosebumps rise along her skin. Bernie nuzzles against Serena, stirring only slightly in an attempt to find a more comfortable position, her forehead tucked right against Serena’s chin.

Her hair smells nice. Like clean sheets or daisies or something. If Serena hadn’t seen the large 2-in-1 shampoo and conditioner bottle that didn’t clear security, she’d wager that Bernie probably uses bar soap on her hair, has never come across any sort of hair product that smells like this. Bernie makes a soft noise of contentment and Serena feels a slight squeezing around her heart, a feeling that makes her want to rest her cheek against the crown of Bernie’s head, to let her eyes drift closed too.

It’s only the jolt of the plane as the wheels hit the tarmac that alerts Serena to the realization that she has, in fact, fallen asleep as well. Her chin jostles against Bernie’s head, she hears a murmur of surprise and pulls back quickly, wipes at her mouth where she can feel, embarrassingly, the smallest trace of drool around her lips.

"Hope you got enough beauty sleep," Serena says to Bernie, hears how her voice is thick with sleep, thinks she might see a flash in Bernie's eyes at the sound, tells herself it's nothing.

Bernie yawns in response and goes to unbuckle her seatbelt, even though the sign has not yet been turned off. Serena puts her hand out, stills Bernie's fingers, realizes this is the second time today alone that they've practically been holding hands.

She gives Bernie's hand a quick squeeze before snaking her arm back to her side of the armrest, stops herself from making a comment about Bernie's rebellious side. When the intercom dings and the light blinks out, Bernie unfastens her belt and sticks her tongue out, small and quick, before standing, stretching, her arms reaching toward the ceiling of the plane, baring the tiniest sliver of pale skin as her shirt lifts up, and Serena finds herself staring at it.

When Bernie looks down, handing over Serena's carry-on bag, Serena blinks away, pretends she's been closely examining the back cover of the in-flight magazine.

The line of people ahead of them moves slowly as they deplane. Serena can feel Bernie behind her, close, so close, because of the press of the passengers, thinks she can feel her breath on the back of her neck, is red at the thought of it.

They didn't bother to check any luggage, no need for large suitcases with only a few days out. Instead they make their way to the taxi stand, Bernie's broken Spanish helping guide them only marginally.

The trip to the conference hotel is short, Serena thinks the cab driver must have made this trip many times today already; an international medical conference draws a crowd.

"Adjoining rooms," Serena says, when they're checked in, swallows a bit at the thought of Bernie just a wall away, just a door away, thinks she's being silly. There's so much in her head, this whole attraction to Bernie, this...these feelings. She feels a bit insane, like she's created this whole scenario, cast it out like fishing line and now has to reel it all back, come to grips with common sense once more.

Bernie just smiles, takes her key. Serena wishes, just for a moment, that the other woman wasn't so _cryptic_. She doesn't like being tied in knots, unsure of herself. It's not a common feeling for her in romantic situations - and she's not even sure this _is_ a romantic situation. It's all a bit much, she thinks, for a woman over fifty, who's been married and divorced. She feels a bit like she's back at school and about to pull one of Bernie’s pigtails.

They take the elevator up the three flights, two young men talking animatedly in front of them, discussing something that sounds potentially related to medicine in Greek. Serena has to push her way through them a bit before they move when the elevator dings for their floor, and smiles apologetically.

"This is us," Serena says, pointing at the two doors. "Knock if you need anything." She smiles as she says it, thinks that if this were a million years ago and they were at summer camp, they might come up with a secret signal.

She lets herself into the room, tells Bernie they can meet up again to go down for the opening talk and gala dinner together. They've some time, two hours to kill. She hangs her dress, puts out her shoes. She's not tired, feels wired, jittery, antsy inside her skin.

Serena sends a message to Elinor letting her know they've landed, she's in the hotel, to call if she needs anything. A few moments later, she gets a "have a good wknd xx" back. It's more than she'd hoped for, really.

She ends up drawing a bath for herself, lets the steam fill the bathroom, draws idle shapes in the mirror while she waits for the tub to fill, slides into the warm water, watches her skin pink at the heat. It makes her feel calmer, like she's been given a clean slate, like she'll come out of the bath as a new person, one with her head on straight and her thoughts focused.

When she’s toweling dry, there’s a soft knock on her door and Bernie calls through the wall, “Just making sure you’re up and about. We’ve a fancy dinner to attend.” Serena snorts audibly in response, hears Bernie’s answering chuckle. As if Serena’s ever depended on Bernie for reminders or punctuality.

Once dry, Serena sits on the edge of her bed, rolls her silk stockings up her smooth legs, points her toes in the air, admires the curve of her own calf.

She slips the dress over her head, pulls the zipper almost all the way up, but no matter how she contorts her arms, can't quite get the last few centimeters, can't get the clasp at the top either. Serena bites her lip, runs a hand through her hair, then knocks on the door. "Bernie? Any chance you've got a moment to spare?"

The adjoining door opens quickly and Bernie is standing there, hair wild and loose about her face, cheek pink and lined from the comforter on the bed. She's got a toothbrush in her mouth and is decidedly not ready to go to the opening session and dinner.

"Right," Serena sighs, glad she hasn't slipped on her heels yet. "Finish my zipper and then we'll get you seen to."

Bernie, mouth still full of saliva and toothpaste, nods agreement, and Serena turns, lets her capable fingers find the zipper, sucks in a breath as one of Bernie's hands rests against Serena's hip, pushing lightly as she pulls the tab to the top of the dress. She's as close as she was when they were walking off the plane but there's something about being barefoot in her hotel room that casts it all a bit differently.

"Thank you," she says, her voice a little high, breathy. "Now go spit." She gives Bernie a little push towards the bathroom sink and she goes dutifully, rinses her mouth and her brush in the cold water.

"Your dress is still in your bag, isn't it?" Serena sighs, knowing the answer already. She goes into Bernie's bag herself, doesn't even think twice about it, rummages until she finds the slinky blue material, so dark it's almost black. "Good thing it doesn't seem to hold wrinkles." She shakes it out, holds it up, can just imagine it on Bernie, knows it will look good, that she will look beautiful.

Bernie grabs the dress, turns back to the bathroom and Serena just catches a glimpse of her taking her shirt off as the door closes. She stands awkwardly in the middle of the room, is just thinking she needs to find her lipstick, mascara, when Bernie emerges, looking tall and lithe, but a bit uncomfortable, like a dog wearing rain boots.

She smooths her hands down the front of her dress. "Never did like to get all gussied up," she says, a bit ruefully.

"Well, you'd put us all to shame on a regular basis if you did, so there's a mercy," Serena says. Bernie flushes, looks down at the floor, her lashes fluttering against her cheek.

Serena gets her make-up kit, brings it back into Bernie's room, finds a certain appreciation for their connecting door. Somehow she finds herself running her fingers through Bernie's hair, pulling it back with bobby pins, all the while looking at their reflection in the bathroom mirror, the clean sheet scent of Bernie’s hair wafting all around.

Bernie takes the offered mascara, swipes it across her lashes, watches as Serena does the same, her face impassive, and Serena thinks how intimate this is, how she can imagine it in her own bathroom back at Holby, fresh from the shower, getting ready for work in the morning, with Bernie at her side. She blinks once, twice, squeezes her eyes shut, tries to shake the image from her brain.

Bernie’s eyes track her fingers as Serena puts red lipstick on, draws around her mouth, rubs her lips together. She offers it to Bernie too, is almost a little relieved when Bernie shakes her head, doesn’t know that she could take Bernie looking too much like someone else. “I’ve just got to…” Serena says, trailing off, tilting her head towards her own room, and Bernie nods.

She takes a breath when she’s back on her side of the door, then looks for her shoes, slides her feet into the heels, takes a few awkward steps as she reacquaints herself with the height. She slips her earrings on, runs a hand through her hair once more, and deems herself presentable.

The hallways are crowded, the elevator too, as doctors from across the globe make their way down to the opening session. Serena stands close to Bernie, can feel the back of her hand against her fingertips, twitches her forefinger once, twice, sees a small smile play about Bernie’s lips.

They’re seated next to each other in the dining hall, facing the podium. There are screens hanging on either side of the stage, so there’s no way they’ll miss a single expression on the speaker’s face.

He turns out to be dull. Incredibly so. Dull enough that Serena fishes a pen from her clutch and starts writing notes to Bernie on the paper napkins that came with their glasses of wine. She draws five lines and the outline of a hangman board. It doesn’t take Bernie long to guess “SNORE.” It takes Serena a bit longer to get “INCOMPETENT BOOB” and she has to bite her lip when she finally guesses “B” and Bernie fills in the last word.

They’re far enough back and sort of in the middle that no one is really paying attention to their table. The rest of the doctors seated around them look to be in stages anywhere from mild boredom to sleeping with their eyes open. There’s a stern looking woman who’s caught sight of their napkin game and gives Serena a haughty sort of stare but then, right before she turns her head away, Serena could swear she winks.

When the speaker is finished, after what seems like an inordinate amount of time, dinner is finally served, and with it, more wine. Endless wine, it seems. Serena’s glass keeps getting filled, either from Bernie’s careful attendance, or a member of the wait staff coming by with a bottle of red. She feels warm and tipsy, lulled pleasantly by Bernie’s low speaking voice and her quiet comments, passing judgment on doctors she sees, ones whose reputations precede them, whether for better or worse.

Eventually, they’re able to go back to their rooms, made enough of an appearance that they’ll have been seen by anyone keeping track of two surgeons from Holby. Bernie does get stopped by someone who’s read a paper of hers on trauma surgery in a war zone, and Serena is forcefully reminded of the other woman’s credentials, of her skill, always feeling a little fearful that Holby won’t be enough for her.

_That you won’t be enough for her_ , her traitorous brain supplies and Serena shakes her head, shakes the thought away. They walk together in a tipsy sort of stumble to their rooms, and Serena follows Bernie into hers, like it’s natural and normal, doesn’t even think twice. She slides out of her heels, and stands awkwardly for a moment before Bernie pats the space on the bed next to her.

“Plenty of room, Ms. Campbell. I don’t bite unless asked.” There’s the glint in her eye again, the small smirk on her lips, and Serena flushes, but sits next to Bernie all the same, maybe too close, but she can blame it on the wine.

Her phone buzzes inside her clutch, and she reaches for it, sees a message from Elinor, asking if she can spend the night at the house with a few friends. Serena doesn’t answer, just clears the notification from her phone and rolls her eyes at Bernie. “Ten quid says I come back to find my home in shambles.”

Bernie chuckles softly. “She might clean up after herself.” Serena shrugs, her arm brushing against Bernie as she does. Definitely sitting too close. But she doesn’t move away. “You could always say no.”

“I’ve had enough of being the mean parent. Sometimes now it’s easier to be the disinterested one,” Serena says, wine loosening her tongue, making her say things she might not otherwise. But she unlocks her phone all the same and types out a message to Elinor. “Two friends. And clean up. I don’t want to see any wine stains or broken glass when I get home.” She sends the message, follows it up with an x, a small attempt to soften the rebuke.

“Are Cam or Charlotte much for partying?” she asks, turning her head and looking blearily at Bernie, the wine making her tired. Bernie shakes her head, her hair coming loose from the pins, her cheeks pink from drinking, her eyes lidded and sleepy.

“I don’t think so,” she says, and Serena is reminded that Bernie doesn’t know her children, not really, not the way she knows Elinor. “But they wouldn’t ask to use my house for a rager anyhow. Much too small.” She says it with humor, her lips tipped up slightly, and she nestles into Serena, their arms pressed together. She picks up Serena’s hand, inspects her fingers one by one, holds their hands together, palm to palm, like she’s measuring. Serena feels her heartbeat quicken, wonders if Bernie can feel it too, her long fingers taller than Serena’s, bending slightly, pressing against the manicured tips of Serena’s nails.

“A surgeon’s hands,” she says sleepily, like she’s in the middle of a thought, one she hasn’t spoken out loud completely. Serena just nods, opens her mouth to ask a follow-up, but closes it when she can’t form a coherent sentence, a stable thought. Their hands drop between them, and Serena has a fleeting thought that she she get back to her own hotel room before she falls asleep.

*

Serena wakes up to the sound of small snore, her eyes blinking into the dark room, and for a brief, horrific moment, wonders if she’s somehow found herself thrown back in time, in Edward’s bed, a man known for his prodigious snoring. But there’s blonde hair tickling her cheek, and she’s still wearing her black dress from the night before.

For the second time in as many days, Bernie Wolfe has fallen asleep on Serena’s shoulder, and Serena can’t say that she minds all that much. She just stops herself from rubbing her cheek against the top of Bernie’s head, tries her best to disentangle her arm from around Bernie’s shoulders, feels pins and needles prick her hand as bloodflow returns to her fingertips. Bernie snuffles softly, her head nuzzling into the space Serena has left behind, breathing in the smell, like she’s chasing Serena’s scent.

She tells herself it’s just an instinctual reaction, that it’s nothing specific to her, to Bernie, that Bernie won’t even remember they’ve fallen asleep together. When she’s able to pull herself from the bed, she touches her forehead, a headache making its presence known, jangling her brain about her skull. She opens the adjoining door quietly, makes her way to her room, fumbles in her toiletry bag for ibuprofen, swallows them down with water from the tap.

She sees the time, just past four in the morning, still a few hours before breakfast. She manages to get the zip of her dress down, no help needed this time, toes her stockings off with surprising grace, and slides under the covers of her unused bed clothed in nothing but a bra and knickers, the cool slide of the sheets against her bare skin. She’s barely closed her eyes before sleep overtakes her once more and doesn’t wake again until her cell phone alarm chimes.

*

The morning sessions are varied and interesting enough that they chose to do a divide and conquer approach, and Serena finds she misses Bernie’s presence next to her. She makes notes of things to tell Bernie later, of ideas to implement on AAU. There’s a new training protocol that gets discussed, and Serena wishes Bernie was there as a second opinion. A panel of doctors talk at length about the proper implementation of trauma procedures in hospitals, and Serena wants Bernie there to know what questions to ask.

Divide and conquer is all very well in theory, but Serena finds she’d rather just be a united front.

It's a relief to leave the oversized conference room, a breath of fresh air to be able to listen to idle chatter and not an unending stream of information that is deemed of utmost importance and an inability to synthesize it properly could lead to patient death. Serena's brain, quite simply, feels full to the brim of things to try, things she's concerned about, things she just plain didn't know.

There's a restaurant near the hotel, booked for conference-goers, a chance for casual networking, for meeting up with old acquaintances. Bernie's lounging outside the glass door, a cigarette between her lips and Serena can only think of how attractive it looks, though she despises the habit. Thinks Bernie could be the face of a new campaign, responsible for a whole raft of new smokers.

When Bernie catches sight of Serena, she drops the cigarette, stubs it out with her toe and smiles sheepishly. "Tension relief," she says by way of explanation, and Serena shrugs.

"You go to cigarettes, I'm going to order a vat of wine with lunch. We all have our vices."

"That good of a morning session, eh?" Bernie laughs, a staccato chuckle.

"Oh, it was fine. But you know how these things are." Serena waves her hand about, hoping that the vague hand motion will make up for having to come up with any sort of verbal explanation. Bernie nods, and Serena isn't surprised. Because of course Bernie gets it, of course she understands.

She worries sometimes that she idealizes Bernie too much, that she can't be lucky enough to find someone who complements her this well. But then the list of cons pops into her brain, unbidden, always there: messy about the office, brash, sometimes foolhardy. She’s not perfect, by any means, Serena is well aware. But her imperfections don’t rankle Serena, don’t make her feel crazy or like she’s a shriveled up curmudgeon. Instead, Bernie’s mess, her take-charge attitude, the way she sometimes bolts through life, it challenges Serena, makes her better. It’s good, she thinks, that they’re not the same.

Bernie bumps their shoulders together, startles Serena from her reverie and she worries that she’s just been staring at Bernie while her thoughts took flight. She opens the door for Bernie, stops herself from placing a guiding hand at the small of her back, and they push through to find a table together in the crowded restaurant, a few other doctors seated around them. The press of people means their bodies are close together, and Serena can feel Bernie's knee next to her own, their thighs touching. Her face is warm, but she explains it away with her wine, with the number of people packed into the small space.

Lunch is good, filling. Serena spears asparagus from Bernie's plate, offers a bite of rice and chicken from her own. The food is warm, vibrant flavors, and Serena feels spoiled, thinks it'll be hard to go home to fish and chips after this. She feels that way on every vacation, sometimes more interested in the food of another country than the conference or the scenery. "British people need to learn to use spices," she says wistfully, chewing quickly, and Bernie laughs.

"The day an Englishman uses spice is the day the world ends, I think."

Bellies full, wine imbibed, Serena leads the way back to the conference hotel. It's all joint sessions in the afternoon, so she and Bernie find seats together, not as close to the front as she'd like, but at least closer to the center. She has her notepad balanced on her lap, always preferred to take conference notes by hand, has found it helps keep them in her mind, rather than typing away at a keyboard.

It’s only halfway through the second speaker that Serena notices Bernie isn’t taking notes, that she’s drawing pictures on her pad, a spaceship, arrows looping around the page, abstract shapes that mean nothing. She nudges Bernie’s arm, derails the flames Bernie’s drawing underneath the rocket. “Pay attention,” she hisses, and Bernie just smirks.

“Why should I? He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.” Bernie flips to a blank page and starts making a list. “This is everything he’s said wrong in the last ten minutes alone.” Serena blinks once, twice, closes her mouth.

“Your memory is...impressive,” she mutters. The list isn’t short, and she wasn’t aware Bernie was even paying that close attention. “Planning to ask any questions at the end?”

“Wouldn’t want to make him look foolish, would I?” she asks in a stage whisper, and Serena can see the heads turning around them. Making him look foolish sounds exactly like the sort of thing Serena would like to do, but she’s familiar enough with Bernie by this point that she knows she’s not one to draw unnecessary attention to herself.

She just watches Bernie continue her idle drawings, at one point, she manages a passable sketch of the presenter, a caricature with big ears and an overly large nose, spittle flying from his lips and Serena has to suppress a proper laugh at that, bites down on her lip. And then Bernie draws a speech bubble, her messy scrawl writing out nonsense and blah blahs, and Serena can’t stop herself, turns and buries her face in Bernie’s shoulder to suppress the giggles she can feel threatening to come out.

She can feel Bernie shaking a bit too, can imagine the press of her lips as she, too, holds back laughter. And then Serena chokes, thinks of Bernie’s bright, loud honk breaking through the silence of the room. The thought fills her with an immeasurable amount of glee and she’s off again, holding her mouth tight, nose smashed into the sharp bone of Bernie’s shoulder.

It’s a while, too long to be considered professional, before she can come to grips, pull herself together and sit up straight, and even then, she can’t look at Bernie, not even as she wipes the mirth-formed tears from her eyes. When there’s the call for questions, she hazards a glance in Bernie’s direction, just sees the subtlest shake of Bernie’s head, her hair fluttering at the movement, but can tell that Bernie is, once again, holding back her great braying laugh, is almost red at the strain of it.

They bolt from the hall when the break is announced and Serena feels like a schoolgirl, like those times when she and her friends would run through the halls of St. Winifred’s, their saddleshoes clopping along the cobbled halls, laughing as they avoided reprimands from prefects. She remembers grasping her friend Maude’s hand, warm and soft in her own, the heaving of their chests as they caught their breath and waited for the school matron to pass on by.

She thinks about the feeling of Bernie’s hand, of her rougher skin, the callouses slowly easing from her fingers, the dryness from scrubbing in for surgeries, and the next thing she knows, she’s touching Bernie’s palm with her fingertips, looking down at their hands, almost but not quite joined together, and Bernie just holds her hand out, lets Serena continue with her gentle, curious exploration. It feels like time has slowed or stopped altogether, like they’re trapped in amber, suspended in honey, like the world has frozen around them. She doesn’t know how long the moment lasts, how much time she spends tracing the lines on Bernie’s hand, the deep life line shooting straight across her palm.

Then a conference-goer bumps into them, breaks the moment, the tension spun between them like a fragile web, and Serena drops her hand to her side, her cheeks pink, looks at Bernie through her lashes, sees the color mirrored on Bernie’s face. “Coffee?” she says, her voice hoarse, as if it’s been ages since she’s spoken. Bernie nods wordlessly and follows Serena to the carafes, queuing in the line formed of caffeine-starved doctors.

They’re quieter for the rest of the afternoon session - it helps that the next two presenters seem considerably more well-informed, and Bernie even stops drawing a flower garden in the margins of her pad to jot down some notes, even underlines a few words that hold special importance.

*

Dinner is a more organized affair, held in the hotel restaurant, no assigned tables, no free for all around the city. It’s less formal than the opening dinner, but the food is better, more options than the strict catered menu of the night before. Serena almost wishes there were assigned seats, that she could have a moment of space from Bernie, feels claustrophobic with the idea of Bernie next to her, around her, like she’s seeping into her pores. She doesn’t know if she’s ever wanted anything so much, doesn’t know how to handle it, clearly isn’t handling it well. Her face colors at the mere memory of the way she touched Bernie’s hand, the way her fingertips danced along Bernie’s palm.

She doesn’t think she can chalk it up to a friendly touch, not this time.

It feels like it’s all getting a bit out of hand, like she’s lost control of the situation, and it’s difficult. She’s usually controlled, in charge, running the show. But Bernie makes her feel a little more reckless, a little wild, a little untamed. She wants a minute, an hour, where she can feel fully herself again, unaffected by another woman. But instead she’s seated next to Bernie at a table in the corner, with two strangers from the United States sitting across from them, wide smiles and broad vowels, politely nosy about the two British doctors they’ve encountered.

“How long have you been together?” The question startles Serena and she looks at Bernie with wide eyes, then back at the other doctor, a Gayle somebody.

“We’ve worked together for about nine months now,” Serena says, fumbling for an answer that sounds professional. Gayle laughs and so does the woman with her, and Serena’s lost any thread of what that woman’s name is.

“Okay, but how long have you been dating?” It sounds juvenile to Serena, like something teenagers do, or women in their twenties. She looks at Bernie again, who only smiles a rueful smile and shakes her head and she’s left to fend for herself on this question.

“Oh - we’re - no, we’re not - it’s against hospital - I don’t...,” she trails off and gives Bernie a helpless glance but can see that Bernie’s about to be overtaken by laughter again and rolls her eyes. Something about the familiarity of the moment helps her find her footing and she looks at the two women across the table who look like they’ve just stumbled across the most delicious dessert, like proverbial cats who’ve gotten the cream. “We’re not dating, just coworkers.”

“Mmm,” is all Gayle says, and mercifully the waiter comes to take their order. Bernie’s hand is on Serena’s knee, and she squeezes gently, a small comfort, and Serena thinks perhaps she doesn’t need space from Bernie after all, that they will find their way through whatever this is, that _she’ll_ find her way through whatever this is. Bernie doesn’t have to be involved. Bernie doesn’t have to even know.

Gayle and her friend let the subject drop, ask questions about the hospital instead, talk about their own private practice in Oregon. It sounds cushy, comfortable, especially in comparison to the cash-strapped NHS, though Serena avoids bringing up the concept of universal health care.

She orders dessert to go, gets a little styrofoam container of chocolate cake, and charges the meal to her room. With a nudge to Bernie’s shoulder, she gets up from the table, smiles politely at Gayle. “Maybe we’ll see each other at breakfast?” she says, with false joviality, and thinks that she would be just fine not sharing a conversation with the woman again.

Bernie laughs a little as they walk away. “You couldn’t stand the woman, could you?” she asks, when they’re far enough from the table so as not to be overheard.

“She was just very pushy. And talking about her limitless budget and her specially-fitted scrubs. I ask you. Is she in medicine to help people or to impress people in bars?” Serena rolls her eyes, pushes the up arrow at the elevator, looks up at the light display to watch the car come down from the eleventh floor.

“She clearly didn’t impress you,” Bernie says and Serena harrumphs, steps into the elevator.

“I’d like to see her go one day on AAU, is all.” Bernie pushes the button for the third floor, has to brush against Serena to do so, her arm warm through Serena’s blouse, and she again gets that smell, that clean scent that she’s found she’s become the tiniest bit addicted to. It’s not even that it’s a fresh sort of odor, it’s just that it’s _Bernie_ , and when it tickles her nostrils, she knows that it means Bernie is near, will know that for the rest of time, she thinks.

“Nightcap and cake?” she says when they get to the doors of their respective rooms, not quite ready to say good night yet, and Bernie nods with a soft smile.

Serena didn’t think to wrangle forks from anywhere, so they perch on the edge of her bed, picking at the chocolate cake with their fingers, and Serena can’t quite look away from Bernie as she licks frosting from her fingers, her tongue sliding along the flat of her thumb. They share a bottle of wine, too, and Serena doesn’t even bother with the plastic cups, just uncorks the bottle and takes a swig right there, before handing it over to a wide-eyed Bernie and she can’t tell if she’s impressed, surprised or disgusted.

When Bernie takes a large sip as well, her neck undulating as she swallows, Serena doesn’t think Bernie’s disgusted, her mouth right over the spot where Serena’s was moments ago, didn’t even wipe at the bottle before placing her lips on it. “Good wine,” she says, handing the bottle back over.

“Did you expect anything less?” Serena asks and Bernie laughs, shakes her head. She takes another sip, enjoys the slide of the warm liquid down her throat, feels it pool in her belly, like a shot of desire, but so much less dangerous.

Serena slides back across the bed so she’s resting against the headboard, pats the space next to her and Bernie joins her after a moment, snagging the mint off the pillow and slipping it between her lips.

“Gayle caught you off guard a bit, didn’t she?” Bernie asks, a slight glint in her eye, a hint of humor, like she knows something that Serena hasn’t said.

“Mmm?” Serena hums, trying to keep a facade of lightness, indifference.

Bernie doesn’t press, sits quietly as she sucks at the mint, the smell of it just tickling Serena’s nose. “Us dating,” she says after a moment. “The way you were flustered it...it made me think there might be someone in your life.” Serena tries to gauge if there’s any measure of hurt in her tone, if she feels left out of the loop on Serena’s personal life.

“There’s - well, there’s no one - there’s the possibility of someone, I suppose,” Serena says, fighting to keep the blush from her cheeks, to keep from spilling out the truth to Bernie. She can see Bernie’s lashes cast light shadows on her cheeks, her beautiful dark eyes not looking up at Serena. “It’s just hard to know when someone else is interested,” she finishes, rather lamely, and feels brave for not looking away when Bernie’s gaze finds her own.

They’re close, so close, and Serena feels the quickening of her pulse, feels her breath catch, because it would be so easy to just lean in, to kiss Bernie on her lips, red from the wine, slightly parted. Her tongue darts out, wet and pink, and Serena can’t help but follow the movement with her eyes. Then Bernie blinks and sighs. “That’s the difficult part of it indeed,” she says softly. And then she yawns, and Serena would’ve said it was very poor acting if she wasn’t worried that she’s somehow done something to make Bernie uncomfortable.

“Time for bed, I think,” she says, standing, opening the adjoining door for Bernie, padding quietly behind Serena. “Today was - today was maybe the best day at a conference I’ve ever had,” she says, and before she can stop herself, before she can think better, she moves in, slow enough that Bernie could move away, and presses her lips to Bernie’s cheek, her lipstick leaving the barest hint behind.

As she closes the door between their rooms, Serena thinks she catches sight of Bernie’s fingers gently caressing the mark, a touch tinged with awe, her face as soft and pretty as Serena’s ever seen it.

*

Morning comes quickly, and Serena groans as she rolls over and presses the off button on her phone alarm. She rubs a hand against her face, wiping the sleep crusted in the corners of her eyes, ruffles her fingers through her hair, wonders vaguely if it’s time to touch up her roots. She allows herself a few minutes to let idle thoughts drift through her mind before forcing herself up to shower.

It’s just as she toweling herself off that she hears a knock at the adjoining door. She doesn’t think about it, just wraps herself in the terrycloth and tucks the corner of the towel in, right between her breasts, and goes to the door.

Bernie’s standing there, looking for all the world like a heavenly vision, smiling mouth and fresh coffee in hand. And then, Serena thinks, as she fully processes just how Serena’s answered the door, her face goes blank, her eyes dark, and she can’t help but feel a little gratified.

“Early riser, is it?” she asks, taking the coffee gratefully, sipping it deeply, letting the smell waft around her, soaking in the scent.

“Went for a bit of a run in the hotel gym. Never was much for treadmills, decided coffee was the better option” Bernie says with a shrug, and moves past Serena into the room, seats herself on the bed, just like she did the night before. Serena stands, barefoot and damp, in the middle of her room, unsure of the next steps. Just as she’s about to turn away, she sees Bernie’s eyes track the movement of a water droplet, dripped from the end of her hair, rolling down along her collarbone, to the edge of the towel. And Bernie’s eyes don’t leave the small drop of water for a moment, her lips parted again in that way that makes Serena think she’s not quite aware of the blatant _want_ that covers her face.

It makes Serena think that perhaps, just perhaps, there’s more than just the whiff of possibility.

She sets the coffee on the small table by the bed and opens the door to the closet, pulls out a blouse, her clean slacks. With a glance at Bernie, she pulls a pair of pants from a drawer, her bra as well, doesn’t miss the studious way Bernie’s averted her eyes.

Serena dresses in the bathroom, the door slightly ajar so she can call out her planned itinerary to Bernie as she puts on her clothes. It feels strange, unusual, but also lovely and intimate all at once, this process. It reminds her of getting ready for the opening reception, of putting on her make-up over Bernie’s sink. How odd and also wonderful to have these little moments of closeness, with someone she considers her best friend, her dearest friend.

It’s another morning of separate sessions, but Serena turns her phone on silent and sends Bernie missives throughout, one time even just the picture of the hedgehog because she finds it adorable, ridiculous. Bernie responds by sending a picture of a mushroom. Serena supposes it’s good that there’s still some mystery between them, but it makes her smile all the same, a furtive grin tucked towards her chest to hide it from the doctors around her.

“Wish you were here,” she sends after a bit, not thinking of the deeper, truer meaning until after it’s been sent. She sees the three dots appear in responses, blinking on her phone screen, and then they drop away, but no message appears. Then the dots again, then nothing, and Serena sighs, has always known that Bernie was never much for words.

But when the morning break is called and Serena ducks out of the auditorium for coffee, Bernie is waiting there with a cup, hands it over readily. “If I can’t be in there with you,” she says, her head tilted towards Serena, her scent filling Serena’s nostrils, her presence filling her senses, “then the least I can do is be there with a shot of caffeine.”

“Mmm. Strong and hot,” Serena says after a sip, but doesn’t clarify whether it’s the coffee or Bernie that she’s speaking about, notices the palest pink flush on the apple of Bernie’s cheeks.

“See you later?” she says, checking her watch, seeing she’s got only a few minutes before the next presentation starts. Bernie nods, bobs her head awkwardly, almost like she was going to go in for a kiss to Serena’s cheek but thought better of it. Serena reaches for Bernie’s hand, grasps it briefly, a quick squeeze, lets their hands drop, and heads back to her seat.

She feels bored, antsy, for the remainder of the session, can’t decide if she’s ready to be home, just wants to be reunited with Bernie, or if the presenter is dull. She catches herself drawing a flower garden in the margin of her pad, a mirror image of Bernie’s from the day before, a rough sketch of a rose, a daffodil. She scratches her pen across the picture, crosses it out with hashmarks and makes a concerted effort to pay attention.

There’s a luncheon to end the conference, but Bernie and Serena agree to bypass it, to checkout of their rooms before the rush of doctors makes their way out of the final meal.

Everything seems to have more of a weight to it, the elevator ride down to the lobby, when Serena hands over her keys to the front desk attendant, the way they stand close to each other while they wait for a taxi. They always stand close, Serena thinks, shoulder to shoulder, arm to arm, always in each other’s orbit, unable to deny the magnetism of the other.

It feels a little different now, makes Serena feel a flutter in her chest, a glimmer in her heart. She feels Bernie at her back, feels all the stronger for it.

When the cab pulls up in front of them, Bernie lifts their bags into the boot and slides in next to Serena, the whole expanse of the middle seat between them. Serena feels a heaviness in the air, not just from the humidity of Madrid. She looks at Bernie from the corner of her eye, can see Bernie looking out the window, rolled down just a sliver, her hair fluttering in the breeze.

Serena edges her fingers across the fabric of the seat, a slow movement, careful, studied. She can’t imagine being casual about it, can’t imagine feeling anything but jangly. Her heart constricts, her hand alone in the center of the backseat, a pale five-fingered flag of surrender, surrender to whatever it is she feels for Bernie Wolfe.

And just as her heart tightens, it eases, because Bernie has slid her hand to meet Serena’s, meeting in the middle, their fingers just tangling, but purposeful, soft, pleasant. She smiles, small and gentle, looking down into her lap. She hears a soft exhalation of breath, steals a glance at Bernie, who is staring at their hands with a look of awe on her face, of disbelief, and Serena just gives her fingers a squeeze, smiles a little wider.

There’s time to kill at the airport, nothing to do but talk about the sessions the other one didn’t attend. Bernie hauls out her notebook, says that she dutifully took notes, knowing Serena would want to see them, even if there was nothing worth learning. Serena points at a note in the margins, a question written on her face. “Nuremburg?” she asks, looking at Bernie.

They’re sitting close, their thighs touching, and Serena thinks maybe, somehow, they’ve crossed a bridge into a new world. “She was a bit lecture-y,” Bernie says. “Made me think of you.” Serena stares for a moment, poleaxed, then laughs, proper and loud, tilts her head back, lets the sound trill from her throat. She feels warm and tingly all over, happy and content in a way she hasn’t felt in so long.

When they board the plane, it’s all a sense of deja vu, Serena sitting in the window seat, Bernie beside her, legs stretched into the aisle. She thinks about making a joke of Bernie falling asleep on the ride over, but then thinks better of it, thinks there’s almost nothing in the world that she’d like more than to feel the weight of Bernie’s head on her shoulder, the strands of her hair tickling her cheek.

She orders a glass of wine, drinks it all down quickly, feels nervous and jittery, excited and hopeful. She gets another small bottle of red, chases away the fears that this was all just the byproduct of being out of the country, of being away from the people who know them, tells herself it’s all real, it’s all happening.

They pass through customs easily, neither having any time to buy presents or souvenirs, just packets of conference papers fill their briefcases. Their waiting at their second taxi stand of the day when Serena finds herself asking Bernie to come over, finds herself extending the invitation without even really thinking.

She feels like they were on holiday, and just doesn’t want it to end, not yet. “Besides,” she says, “Don’t you want to see if Elinor made a mess of the place?” She smiles, an inside joke between them, is gratified when Bernie chuckles, her little huffy barks, what she does to stave off her braying laugh. Serena wonders if Bernie knows how much she likes her laugh, how it makes her seem real, human, somehow flawed and perfect in equal measure.

There’s no evidence that Elinor had any friends over, no empty bottles in the waste bin, no broken vases, nothing. Serena feels almost disappointed, expects she got a better offer, found somewhere else to drink cheap vodka and leave her scarves strewn about. She does see a note that says “watered your plants, took your gin xx E” and that’s the best she can hope for, perhaps.

Bernie settles on the couch in the sitting room, and Serena tries to remember if they’ve done this before. Something about it seems so familiar, so welcome, that she can’t imagine they haven’t done this a thousand times before. It just feels right, to have Bernie here in her home.

She pours them wine, sits at the other end of the sofa, tucks her feet up under her, leans her elbow against the back cushion, her body thrust toward Bernie, and she can feel herself move infinitesimally closer with every breath, every sigh, an inescapable pull.

There’s a moment of silence, a beat of tension, and then Bernie opens her mouth, her gaze focused on a patch of carpet as though it’s the Mona Lisa.

“That person you’re interested in,” Bernie starts, her voice tentative, a bit shy, and Serena can feel her cheeks heat. “Wouldn’t happen to be someone at the hospital, would it?”

Serena nods, rather than speaks, thinks if there was any time to be the bold, brash woman she’s touted to be, it’s this, when it matters most.

“A work colleague, Ms. Campbell?” Bernie’s looking at Serena with her eyebrows raised in faux dismay, but her eyes are twinkling, her mouth smiling.

“Goes against all my rules,” Serena says, sees Bernie’s face fall a bit, tumbles over her words to reassure her: “But I made those rules before I knew - before I met - before - you.”

Bernie’s face is soft and warm, and it makes perfect sense for Serena to lean in, a bit farther than is comfortable, a bit too much space between them still. But it doesn’t matter, not in the least, when she places her lips gently against Bernie’s, threads her hand into Bernie’s hair, pulls her in close. And Bernie doesn’t stiffen, doesn’t push away, just responds in kind, one hand at Serena’s shoulder, the other flirting with the edge of her top, just brushing the bare skin at her waist.

They kiss, and it feels like Serena’s never kissed anyone before. She feels like a fawn making its first steps, awkward and off-kilter, but Bernie doesn’t falter, just a continued pressure against Serena’s lips, the careful guidance of her fingers, the soft urging of her throaty moans. Serena lets Bernie push her back against the cushions of the couch, revels in the feeling of Bernie on top of her, the lengths of their bodies pressed together, their hips meeting, their knees bumping. It’s uncomfortable and not, new and familiar, a dichotomy of feeling that Serena can’t quite grasp, a seemingly endless point of discovery, and Bernie Wolfe is her guide.

Serena doesn’t know how much time has gone by, how long they’ve spent like this, knows her lips are full, well-kissed, pink, the lipstick smeared. She only stops when Bernie pulls back, concern in her eyes, her fingers touching Serena’s skin, her shirt pushed up, out of the way. “Are you okay?” Bernie asks, all care and worry, and Serena spoils it all by laughing, a giddy sort of giggle that burbles its way up and out of her mouth.

“Oh, darling,” she says when Bernie looks offended, makes as if to pull back further, “oh darling, this is perfect.” She places a hand on either side of Bernie’s face, holds her steady. “Perfect.” It’s uncomfortable when she cranes up to kiss Bernie again, the position strange, but then Bernie softens against her, groans as Serena slides her tongue between Bernie’s lips.

“Why don’t you,” Serena whispers breathily against Bernie’s mouth, “meet me upstairs. Bedroom’s at the end of the hall. I’ve just got to…” she trails off, no real excuse, just thinks she needs a moment to gather her thoughts, to reassure herself that this is all real, that it’s happening and that it’s happening _to her_.

Bernie smiles, almost smirks, and Serena would hate it if it didn’t look so damned attractive. She backs off the couch, stands easily, and practically saunters up the stairs. Serena puts the wine glasses in the kitchen, fills another glass with tap water, thinks she’s got her wits about her at the moment but that hydration isn’t the worst idea she’s ever had.

She can hear Bernie’s movement in the bedroom, feels that telltale thrill of excitement shoot through her, and promptly spills the water down her front when she opens the bedroom door, sees Bernie sitting on the edge of her bed in nothing but a black bra and matching pants.

“I think I used to be a bit smoother about things like this,” she says in response to Bernie’s grin, bends down to kiss the expression of Bernie’s face, just because she can.

“You’re doing fine,” Bernie says, her arms going up, around Serena’s shoulders, pulling her down to the bed.

Though it’s the first time Serena’s been with a woman, it’s as if she’s never known anything else. She revels in touching Bernie’s soft skin, tanned and freckled, the easy marks from a life spent in the desert. She can feel scars under her fingertips, the more painful reminders of her life before.

Bernie is patient, gentle as she undresses Serena, and Serena can just tell she’s holding back a little, like she’s fearful Serena will change her mind, like she’s not sure if Serena knows what she’s getting herself into. She digs her fingers into Bernie’s hips, bucks up against the wetness she can feel through Bernie’s pants. She nips at Bernie’s jaw, bites on Bernie’s lower lip, moans against the pulse point in Bernie’s neck.

She thinks it’s the noise that breaks Bernie’s control, the sound coming from her that spurs Bernie to action, her movements less studied, less careful, and she presses Serena into the duvet, cups her roughly, and Serena ruts against her hand, can’t get enough of the contact, only wants more.

Bernie has the nimble hands of the surgeon and Serena’s not sure she’s ever appreciated them more than when she’s knuckle-deep inside of her, when her thumb is teasing at her clit, when her other hand is toying with a nipple, pulling it taut, making it stand erect in the cool air of her bedroom.

Serena comes with a shout, comes fast enough she didn’t see it coming, wasn’t prepared, and she thinks her nails will leave marks in Bernie’s shoulder. “Oh,” she says, when her heart has calmed, when she opens her eyes to see Bernie looking down at her, those dark eyes so beautiful and caring. “That was…” She can’t find the words for it, nothing is appropriate, nothing is good enough, not for this. Instead she pulls Bernie back to her, kisses her long and deep, and holds her close.

“That was worth breaking my rules for,” she says, when she comes up for air, mouths the words against Bernie’s skin. “I think I may have to rewrite the rules entirely.”

That smirk steals its way across Bernie’s face again and Serena just rolls her eyes, kisses the expression right off her lips, and decides to prove to Bernie just what an apt pupil she can be, her fingers strong and sure, finding the places that make Bernie squirm, that make her breath come out in pants, and learns what it looks like when Bernie comes, her face a mask of beautiful ecstasy, and Serena wants to remember that face for the rest of her life, thinks she might be lucky enough to see it regularly in the years to come.

The last thing she thinks as she falls asleep is how nice it all is, how wonderful, how beautiful and strange to be in love with one’s best friend. Because that’s what it is, she thinks, when it’s all said and done.

When Serena wakes up, the sun is peeking through the curtains and Monday has dawned, surely and certainly, and there’s no denying it any longer. The conference holiday is well and truly over. But she turns her head, sees Bernie’s hair, pillowed on her shoulder, the place that Serena’s already come to think of as _Bernie’s_ place, the place Bernie has placed her head three times in almost as many days.

“It’s a work day,” she whispers, just loud enough to make Bernie shake her head, burrow further into Serena. “Yes it is,” she repeats, poking a finger into Bernie’s side, naked and warm. Before she can pull her hand back, Bernie’s grabbed her fingers, pulls her hand to her mouth, kisses each fingertip.

“We can’t be late,” she murmurs, though being late due to a morning spent in bed with Bernie sounds like one of the most desirable things she can think of.

“We could be,” Bernie mutters, her tongue flicking out now as she repeats the motion against each of Serena’s fingers. “I know the boss.”

“The boss who doesn’t approve of workplace romance,” Serena says, trying and failing quite miserably to sound stern. She hadn’t anticipated this particular hurdle, this specific difficulty, a sleep-warmed Bernie Wolfe enticing her to stay in bed.

With no small amount of effort and will, she pulls her hand away, rolls out of bed, stands just out of Bernie’s reach. “I will shower. Then you will shower. And then we will go to work.” Bernie scrunches her nose up at Serena, an adorably disgruntled expression, and Serena just smiles, tries to memorize the sight of it.

Showered and dressed, Serena makes coffee, hearing the sounds of water running, has to stop herself from thinking of Bernie’s naked body under the spray, all the more vivid now that she has accurate memories to flesh out her imaginings. She fiddles with her phone, slides it open to send Elinor another text, to say she’s made it home from Spain, that she’s got a bit of news to share, wonders how long it will take to pique Elinor’s interest.

Bernie doesn’t take long to get herself clean, and Serena wouldn’t have expected anything less. She’s got a towel wrapped around her hair when she comes downstairs and Serena finds it endearing, wonders if there’s anything about this woman she won’t find endearing.

“Shall we?” she asks, handing a travel mug full of coffee to Bernie, who accepts it with a gratifyingly beaming smile.

“If we must, we must,” she says, and troops out to the garage, waits for Serena to back the car out before getting into the passenger seat.

She pulls onto the main road, looks at Bernie, the sun in her hair, the smell of coffee on her lips, and feels a fullness in her heart, an expansion, an explosion, a supernova of affection. She nudges Bernie with her elbow, grins as Bernie looks over, and nudges Serena right back.


End file.
